“Now pray don’t forget the hour.”
“No. D-o-o-o-o, si, la, sol-l-l-l.”
“At twelve you will be mine.”
“Yes. Fa-a-a, me, re, d-o-o-o-o.”
“And now you trust yourself to me Rosi—.”
“A-h-h-h,” shrieked the doctor, his head coming round the human screen, and noticing the whispers. He evaded the quivering razor and rushed at the music-people, one of whom, to wit the master, looked the picture of innocent consternation; while the other was quite astonished.
Cried Figaro:—
“When thus a man doth rage and rave,
The thing to do ’s his head to shave.”
“I think I’d better go,” said the music-master, tremblingly.
“I think you had,” said Figaro.